All I Want for Christmas is Q
by VampirePam
Summary: When Q dreads facing his former tormentors at a university Christmas party without the protection of his top-secret occupation, Bond offers to accompany him as his date. One would think two of Britain's best spies could have anticipated what would happen next.


James nearly jogged down the hallway to Q's office, chased by a relentless chorus of "Jingle Bells" over the loudspeaker. Though the holidays had been strictly chased from the confines of the office during _her _tenure, the overeager new M had decided to go in...a different direction. James was hoping that Q's office would provide him with some much needed peace and quiet.

"Quartermaster, you haven't seen my exploding cufflinks, have you?" James asked as he ducked into his office, gesturing to his gaping shirt cuffs.

"Desk," Q murmured absently. "Borrowed them. Needed more nitroglycerine." He immediately returned his full attention to the email on his computer screen and heaved a heavy sigh.

"Bad news from Moneypenny?" James inquired, slipping the first cufflink into place with extreme caution. "I _told_ her we didn't have enough intel on the damn Moroccan job."

"No, no, nothing like that." Q waved him off. He ran an agitated hand through his already unkempt hair and strained the springs of his office chair into leaning back as far as they could go. "As a matter of fact, Morocco's going swimmingly. We may have agents back in country as soon as next week."

"Then am I to take it that sigh signifies a problem of a more...delicate, personal nature?" James wasn't sure why he was asking - it was surely none of his business. He put it down to not wanting to go back into the hallway.

"Don't you have a secretary to seduce or something?" Q snapped. When James rose to leave, Q placed a careful hand on his sleeve and interjected, "Oh, I'm sorry. It's not your fault. It's just...not a problem you'd understand."

Something about the combination of the sad, little Christmas tree perched on the corner of Q's desk and the way its lights sent different glowing colors dancing over the miserable expression on his face had James perching on the side of the desk. "Try me."

Q looked him up and down for a long moment, as if coming to some sort of decision. Finally, he threw his hands up and declared, "Oh, what the hell. Not as if it could make things worse. He whirled the computer screen in James' direction. "Read it and weep, as they say."

James took the next few minutes to peruse what seemed at first, second, and third glances to be a perfectly ordinary invitation to the King's College Alumni Holiday Party. He returned his attention to Q. "I'm sorry, but I don't quite see-"

"No, of course _you_ don't!" Q buried his head in his hands in despair. The half-sobbed words that followed were incomprehensible to James.

"I, uh, didn't quite catch..." He was beginning to sorely regret having agreed to help with this apparently dire problem.

"_You _wouldn't have to show your face at your old college's holiday party without a date!" Q nearly shouted. "_You _would walk in with half of England's cricket team on each arm and make Roger Davies absolutely _chartreuse_ with envy!"

"Q," James said with what he considered admirable patience. "Who is Roger Davies and why do you feel the need to make him...chartreuse?"

"Only the self-appointed Chief Inquisitor and Torture Master at King's College!" Q was as close to hysterical as James had ever seen him. "Now he sends me this invitation out of nowhere, _daring _me to come and show him that I'm still the same loser he used to push off punts into the Cam."

"Surely being the youngest head of research and development MI-6 has ever had disqualifies you from the loser category?" James reached out a hand toward Q's shoulder, before thinking the better of it and withdrawing.

"Well yes, to _me,_" Q acknowledged. "It's all well and good that I can look _myself_ in the mirror in the morning and know that I've made it, that I could have Davies and his cronies sent to darkest Abyssinia with the touch of a button if I so chose. A fat lot of good that's going to be at a do like this, where MI-6 demands I have to tell them I sell bloody _insurance_!"

"And you thought showing up with someone, I don't know, flashy would persuade them to look past the insurance?" James was relieved the pieces were finally fitting together into some sort of picture.

"Got it in one." Q took another long look at the computer screen, then shoved his mouse violently aside. "Oh, why am I even talking about this anymore? It's no use. I'll simply tell him I'm not going and let him laugh with his buddies at the club about what a coward I am."

"You could do that..." An idea was beginning to take shape in James' brain. "Or..."

"I like the sound of _or_." For the first time since they'd begun this insane conversation, he looked marginally less despondent. "Do enlighten me, 007."

"It's simple, really," James said, and it was. On paper, anyway. "Take me as your date."

"Take..._you_?" Q's jaw dropped nearly to floor.

"Well, I know I'm not the youngest model on the floor, but it's got to be better than not going at all." James looked away, trying not to take Q's shock too personally...and failing miserably.

Q's lips were on his in a flash, and were gone just as quickly. "Better? It's _brilliant._" James was grateful that Q was too busy dancing a little jig around the office while humming 'Deck the Halls' to notice the shocked stupor it took him several minutes to shake off.

"You, my friend, are a true knight in shining armor. That's it! I'll get you knighted. Come next year's honours lists, we'll all be calling you Sir Bond. Oh, I can't _wait _to see Davies' face. You will wear the tuxedo, won't you? You look so terrifically dashing in the tuxedo."

"Sure, Q..." Now it was James who was mumbling, a hand running absently over his lips. "Whatever you want." His stomach was lurching in a familiar sensation - on a mission, it usually meant that he'd missed something obvious...and would soon be paying the penalty for it.

But this was a Christmas party - what was the worst that could happen? Somewhere in the back of his mind, a treacherous voice whispered, "Famous last words..."

James sighed, quietly enough that Q wouldn't hear.He was so fucked.


End file.
